FEAST

Course 9

“My brother and I grew up in a very traditional Jewish home.”  Drew’s statement brought me out of my reverie.  My ears perked up because this was the first time I had heard him saying anything about his personal life.  “All the festivals, all the solemn occasions, every Sabbath.”  He paused and his eyes lit up.  His mouth curled into a smile as he continued,  “We didn’t have formal rabbinic training, but my parents made sure we knew scripture better than we knew our own names.”

“Did you find that—hard when you were a kid?”  Santiago’s question was revealing and I felt a rush of sympathy for him.

Sympathy was etched on Drew’s face as he looked at Santiago.  “I have to admit there were times when I’d rather have been doing other things besides memorizing sections of the Torah,” he said.  “But as I grew older, I realized how expertly my parents had followed the words of Moses.  When my father taught my brother and me how to fish, he used to tell us about the creation of the world and how God created water before earth, sea creatures before land animals.  On Sabbath he would hold bread in his hands and remind us that of all the things we were given to eat, bread was one of the only things that resulted from God’s gifts along human effort and imagination.”

“He sounds like a really good dad,” Dara said.  Her head bowed slightly and she was looking at her hands.

“He was.”  Drew now turned sympathetic eyes on Dara.  “Not perfect.  No father ever is...though some are much worse than others.”

Both Santiago and Dara looked at Drew and as he turned his attention to them each in turn, their bodies visibly relaxed as if just a simple acknowledgement of their struggles brought them a sense of comfort.

“You must take after him,” Dara finally said with a smile.

Drew chuckled softly.  “It’s my brother who inherited my father’s personality much more than I.  Big and boisterous and larger than life.”

As I tried to imagine a Drew look-alike who was loud and rowdy, the actual Drew looked at the other end of the table and said, “Well, it looks like everyone is ready to move on.”

Laylah nodded and began to rise from her chair when Santiago said, “You know, if you wanted to just relax for now, I could help Drew out with the dishes and stuff.”  Laylah resumed her seat while Santiago continued, “I was kinda hoping to see the chef and his staff in action.”

“I think I’ll join you,” Aholien offered and he, Santiago, and Drew began gathering up the salad bowls.  They excused themselves and walked toward the kitchen while Santiago commented excitedly about being allowed to see Chef A’s kitchen.

I looked at Dara and grinned.  I found Santiago’s enthusiasm over just about everything endearing rather than annoying, which was my usual default position when around perpetually upbeat people.  I heard Laylah chuckle and the three of us shared a smile.

“Love that guy’s zest for life,” said Laylah.

We sat quietly for a moment, listening to the sounds coming from the kitchen.  I could hear dishes clanking together and the noise of what I assumed was the next course being prepared coming from the kitchen.  I breathed in slowly and deeply and was surprised to realize that no significant aromas were drifting through the air.  I ran through the courses we’d already eaten, mentally ticking off seven.  The eighth course was supposed to be something sweet.  Dessert.  For me, that usually meant something baked, like cookies or pastries.  I sniffed softly and couldn’t discern any whiff of baked goods.

“Santiago seems like a really good person.  And a good friend,” Dara said after a while.  “I’m glad he and Aholien are here tonight.  I just hope the...situation with Aaliya hasn’t made it harder on Aholien.”

Laylah’s face clouded for a moment, then she said, “I agree.  I was happy to see that he decided to stick around.”

“It was actually his idea that we should stay,” I said.  At Laylah’s look of surprise, I continued, “We were thinking maybe you and Drew and the chef might want to cut the evening short, but Aholien told us he thought Chef would rather we see it through, so we all agreed.”

“That does my heart good.”  Laylah bowed her head briefly and when she looked at us again, her eyes were glistening.  “Drew had his doubts about inviting Aholien so soon after his loss, but I had a feeling this would be good for him.  Turns out, he’s just as good for us as we are for him.”  Laylah turned her eyes on me and added, “Which is how it should be, don’t you think?”

My eyes met hers and I felt a sudden, intense, irrational desire to fling myself under the table.  Anything to get away from her stare.  My breathing was becoming labored, I was starting to sweat, yet I couldn’t tear my eyes away from hers.  What in the world is going on? I thought, feeling on the verge of hysteria.  I began silently begging her to stop looking at me.  But when she did, I felt no relief.

“Do you know what Hannah titled her painting?”  Laylah’s question seemed to come out of nowhere.  I was still struggling to regain some semblance of equilibrium and couldn’t immediately focus on what she had asked.  I vaguely heard Dara ask Laylah to tell us the title.

“Lavah.”  Laylah’s eyes were now fixed on the painting.  “That word holds a very special meaning for me.”

I had recovered enough to hear a slight tinge of melancholy in Laylah’s statement, and although I was fairly certain she had noticed my brief descent into a frenzy of anxiety, I was determined to play it cool.

“What language is that?” I asked, praying desperately that my voice didn’t sound as shaky to Dara and Laylah as it did in my head.

Laylah paused and glanced at me before replying, “Hebrew.  It’s usually translated ‘joined’ in English.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, why is that word so special to you?” Dara asked, giving me something to focus on besides a rising fear that Laylah would direct her gaze at me again.

There was another pause, this one substantially longer.  In the stillness, I could still hear rain pattering against the window.  The sound was strangely comforting.

“I don’t think we have time for my whole story,” Laylah finally remarked in a rather subdued voice.  “I can tell you that I was in a loveless marriage and I thought having children would make all the difference.  It didn’t.”  Those last two words were drenched in grief and sorrow but, astoundingly, not a drop of bitterness.  She leaned back and rested her head on the back of her chair, closing her eyes, which gave me the opportunity to study her, something I’d been wanting to do almost since I walked in the front door.  I noted that her skin had a slight olive tone to it and was much darker than I had thought, as if she had spent a lot of time in the sun.  Like Drew, though, she showed no visible signs of sun damage.  Her face and hands seemed remarkably wrinkle-free and although her hair was streaked with gray, as I had noticed when we first met, the streaks didn’t age her appearance.  In fact, it was almost like the gray had the opposite effect.

I had hoped to continue my scrutinizing but, with her eyes still closed, Laylah said, “After the birth of my third son, I had this crazy hope that since I’d given my husband three sons, he would recognize my worth and become wildly attached to me.”  A rueful smile touched Laylah’s lips and she opened her eyes, rolled her head slightly to the side so she was looking at us and said, “I discovered that a man will not join himself to you simply because you have birthed his sons.  Even if you name a child after the hope of that joining.”

Dara let out a little “oh” of sympathy and said, “Wow.  I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” Laylah responded and gave Dara a kind smile.  She sat up and looked at the painting.  “I supposed that’s one of the reasons Hannah’s story resonated with me so much.  I understand all too well the longing for a true family.”

She didn’t look at me this time, but I began to feel that same overwhelming tsunami of panic begin to swell within me.  Desperate to remain calm, I found myself frantically searching the room for something to focus on, an anchor that would keep me from being swept away by the rising deluge.  My eyes locked onto the painting and I almost cried out in shock.  Light was emanating from the canvas, filling the entire room, enfolding me in its brilliance.

I jumped up and started to back away from the painting only to discover that I had nowhere to go.  My back was against a wall.  I frantically searched for the door when I realized that although the space looked very similar to the chef’s dining room, there was something subtly different about it.  I looked around in an attempt to ground myself with something familiar...and then I saw the faces.  All the faces I had stared at and studied were now turned towards me.  Only they weren’t looking at me from a painting.  I was seeing flesh and bone, not canvas and paint.

As my eyes darted wildly from face to face, I began to notice that instead of laughter and joy, or even seriousness, the people surrounding me wore expressions of compassion, sorrow, and understanding.  And were they all crying?

Someone near me moved and as I turned in that direction, I found myself face to face with the ordinary-looking man.  He didn’t say a word, but the intensity of his gaze caused me to raise every mental and emotional defense I possessed.  I wanted to run away, scream, bawl like a baby, punch something, and hide all at the same time.

“Abigail.”

My name.  Someone had said my name.

“Abigail.”

Someone was saying my name.

I felt my defenses begin to melt away like tears.  I closed my eyes.

“Abigail.”

My eyes fluttered open and I saw Laylah kneeling next to me.  Dara had grabbed my hand and was squeezing it for all she was worth.

“I—I don’t—“ I stuttered.  “What—I don’t—“

“It’s okay, Abs,” said Dara, still squeezing my hand.  “It’s okay.”

I looked at Dara and saw the same expression on her face as I’d seen—I squeezed my eyes shut.  I tried to breathe in through my nose only to choke on air as I attempted to keep the sobs internal.

“How long has it been?” Laylah asked.

Her question made perfect sense and no sense at all.  “Too long,” was all I could choke out.

Laylah nodded and laid her hand gently on my shoulder.  She was looking at me again but this time I found comfort in her steady gaze.  I gulped a few deep breaths.

“That painting,” I managed to croak.  “It’s—”

“Yes.”  Laylah’s smile was mysterious while at the same time kind and gentle.

“What happened, Abs?  I mean, are you all right?”  Dara’s voice was still a little anxious.

“I think so.  And I—I’m not really sure.  It’s like they—“  I stopped and stole a furtive look at the painting, almost dreading what I might see.  Everything had returned to the way it looked when I first saw it.  I was relieved yet a little disappointed at the same time.  “Did you guys—?”  I looked from Dara to Laylah and although Laylah maintained that mysterious smile, neither she nor Dara said they had seen anything out of the ordinary.  “I guess it must have been...just my imagination,” I finished rather lamely.

“There’s more to this life than the reality you see with your eyes,” said Laylah.

I was about to ask what she meant when the door to the kitchen swung open.  Drew, Santiago, and Aholien walked in, then hesitated when they saw us.  Drew shot a questioning look at Laylah.  She shook her head slightly and stood, returning to her chair after giving my shoulder a soft pat.  I wiped my face quickly with my hands under the guise of having an itch.  I doubt it fooled anyone, but it made me feel a little less ridiculous.

Drew set a small glass plate in front of Laylah, while Santiago and Aholien served Dara and me.  With their own plates in hand, they sat down and Santiago said, “You guys are in for a real treat!”  He looked my way with a nervous, encouraging smile.  I was feeling raw and exposed, but his sincerity crumbled my remaining defenses to bits and I gave him the biggest and most genuine smile I could muster.

“Baklava!” Dara exclaimed.  “I absolutely love baklava!”

I’d only had baklava twice in my life, once at a fast-food Greek restaurant and once at a local coffee shop.  The first piece had almost broken my teeth, which I assume was not a mark of quality, and I’d sent the second small triangle sailing off my plate and into another customer’s lap when I tried to cut into it with my fork.  I was hoping for better results this time.

The edge of the plate I had been served was embossed with tiny vines and leaves, and I saw that a small three-pronged gold fork had been laid next to the diamond-shaped piece of baklava.  It was several layers thick, topped with a garnish of finely chopped green-tinged nuts, which I took to be pistachios.  The thin pastry was a perfect golden color and as I sank the fork into my piece with ease, I grinned.

My taste buds began thanking me profusely as I sank my teeth into the first bite.  An explosion of cinnamon and honey paired perfectly with the crunchiness of the pistachios.  The top layer of pastry was crisp while the deeper layers were just the right chewiness.  Sweet and salty, with just a hint of something—was it rose?  Orange?  Both?  I would never have believed anything could taste that good.

I chewed slowly and savored each bite.  I really wanted that piece of baklava to last forever.  My parents had forcefully impressed upon me the impoliteness of asking for seconds when you were a guest at someone’s house, but never in all my life had I been more tempted to break their hard and fast rule.

As if in response to my silent wish, the kitchen door opened and one of the chef’s assistants came in with a large plate piled with more triangles of pure golden delight.  “The Chef wanted to make sure all of you were able to enjoy the sweet ending of the meal to its fullest.”

I’m not sure a plate has ever been more welcomed at any table.  Dara and I took another piece, as did Laylah and Aholien.  Santiago unabashedly placed two more triangles on his plate.  Drew’s smile was affable as he laid the last two pieces on his own plate.

“I’ve been told that baklava has somewhat of a contentious history,” said Dara after we’d all taken a few more bites.  “Is that true?”

“I just learned all about that!”  Santiago’s face lit up.  “All these cultures claim to have invented it but no one knows for sure where it came from.  Oh, but maybe you should tell everyone about it, Drew.  You know way more than me,” Santiago said, looking at Drew.

“You’re doing just fine,” said Drew, smiling.

“Oh!  Okay.  Well, just about every Middle Eastern and Mediterranean culture says the recipe started with them.  Some historians even think maybe it was the Assyrians who invented it.  But the really cool thing about it—well, I mean, I think it’s really cool, anyway—is that it made its way through all these different cultures and every single one of them left their mark on it in some way.  It’s kinda like it’s got all these layers both literally and metaphorically!” Santiago finished enthusiastically with a flourish of his fork.

We all smiled at Santiago and Drew remarked, “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“I know that baklava is popular in Greek cooking.  What are some of the cultures that claim its origin?” asked Dara.

“Um, let me see if I can remember what Chef’s assistants said,” Santiago murmured.  He thought for a moment then responded, “Besides the Greeks I think they talked about Armenians, Arabs, and Persians.”

“And like Santiago mentioned, they all added something unique to their own versions of the recipe,” Drew added.  “It was the Greeks who used phyllo instead of a thicker bread dough.  Armenians contributed cinnamon and cloves, Arabs added rose water and orange blossom, and it was the Persians who layered the dough with nuts and perfumed it with jasmine.”

“That’s incredible that it passed through so many people,” said Dara as she picked up a stray nut from her plate and popped it into her mouth.

“And even though it might be known for its struggle of ownership, there’s no denying that something very, very sweet emerged from that struggle.”  Laylah’s quiet comment made me think of the painting once again.  I looked up at it and saw that the people were once again laughing and wearing expressions of unbridled joy.